Just drop it, John
by csfcsf
Summary: One line, different scenes – an exercise. All one-scenes. Several different times John heard Sherlock tell him the same thing: 'Just drop it, John'. Different genres and varying lengths, one common line of dialogue. (Because I was bored - go figure.)
1. Chapter 1

**One line, different stories**

_**.**_

In a mad dash we make our way inside the train station. At the end of the day, even in the countryside, it's full of workers going home, school kids with bag packs and other commuters. For a few seconds Sherlock and I are left frozen in the bustling crowd, trying to catch sight of the suspect (actually, call him a criminal, Sherlock is very sure he did it, I'm just not sure how yet, Sherlock is milking it again).

'There!' Sherlock yells all of a sudden, grabbing me by the arm to push me along. Then we're running again, chasing the suspect Sherlock has spotted in one of the exterior platforms.

He jumps the tickets barrier (easy for his long legs), flashing the platform manager a police badge. Detective Inspector Lestrade's are his favourite acquired badges. I jump next (bloody things!) and luckily the manager assumes we're a team of undercover police officers (I haven't acquired a badge, thank you).

Sherlock is running like a maniac in front of me, shoving innocent people aside on his way to the suspect; I'm following, breaking my own record of voiced apologies for his rudeness. All in a day's work.

As we reach the right platform the train is leaving the station and for a moment all seems to be lost. Maybe the suspect didn't board the train? That would be too lucky. We catch a glimpse of the murderer eyeing us back through one of the windows. I start to curse, Sherlock just grabs my arm again to jerk me into another mad run, side by side with the last carriage of the train, through the platform. Surely it's too late?

Damn this new coat, it's hot and heavy and I'm sweaty and old. Anger at the coat just makes me run faster. Sherlock is still in the lead. The platform ends, suddenly we're running over gravel and dirt.

Sherlock just manages to grab onto the handles of the last door of the end carriage, breathless, his wavy black curls are swept back by sweat and wind, and yet he still looks all posh. 'John, hurry up!'

I jerk myself off my heavy coat even as I run to keep up with the train. Another yard before the train ends the curve on the tracks and then it'll really speed up. This is a last chance. My heavy new coat is on my hand, my legs are spread wide at every step in a way I wasn't sure I could since Afghanistan's emergency rescues, my breaths are painfully shallow, my head is all but dizzying from the lack of coherent oxygen input. God, I'm old. Damn me if I give up. Just three and a half years ago I was using a crutch, damn me if I ever go back to that.

In a mad Geronimo-_ish_ jump I reach the steel handle with the tips of my fingers and I fight for a tight grasp even as my legs are still running the gravel alongside the tracks. Sherlock leans over from inside the train to grab my arm with one hand and the jumper at my neck with the other.

'Let go of the coat, John!'

The coat has nothing to do with it, I'd assure him if I hadn't the wind knocked out of me.

'Just drop it, John!' he demands, more loudly. There is something new in his voice, something I will never question. I drop the heavy coat and launch forward to the train door, he shoves me forcefully inside. Just in time, too. As I scramble over both detective and the floor of the carriage the train jerks suddenly, shaking its carriages and everyone inside.

'Train tracks', Sherlock reports. In my mad run, I never saw it coming. If I were still holding on to the handle it would have thrown me off balance, hard. Possibly fatally.

'Thanks, Sherlock.' My mad partner just acts like he hasn't even heard my words. He's already getting up. 'Are we going to get the suspect now?'

'Catch your breath, John.'

I think on how hard it was for me to keep up running and I'd bet I even pale. 'Look, back there...' I start.

'I'll get you another coat, John.'

'I don't need another coat! Actually, Mary is going to kill me. She gave it to me. Said I looked taller – I mean, nice in it. And good thing I put my phone and wallet in my jeans too.'

'Nice work', he ends up saying, and I just stare dumbfounded at him. Sherlock is complementing me? Is this a midget joke again? I'm average height, not everyone can be towering detectives with long legs, damn it.

I finally get up as well, in the trembling carriage, speeding up on its way to... I have no idea where. Sherlock has been waiting for me (like this is the time to be polite for once in a lifetime, you git). Together we make our way to the criminal, we can already tell he's not even going to put up a fight.

I just take out my phone and ring Lestrade to report our location and the collect point for one fugitive serial murderer. Then I realise Sherlock hasn't told me yet how the man's done it. Well, I'll leave that to him, anyway I'm just his blogger.

'Hey, Lestrade! Yeah, we caught him. We manage to catch him on board a train, nothing too hard.' I catch a glimpse of an amused smile in Sherlock Holmes.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: (__Danke schön__ for the reminder. Took me a while, right?)_

_Went back to find my old notebook and consult my plan for this collection, sketched (I kid you not) on a long stormy night._

_This one came out a bit sad, it just rolled off the pen like that. And long. Next one will be more upbeat._

_Writing through John's perspective is not as easy as I thought it'd be at first. I once joked that John is like a man with multiple personalities; one time he's the selfless doctor, the next he's the stern soldier, in between the simply John that is easy going and amazed by his friend's abilities. This is about making justice for all those sides of John Watson as a whole._

_We all have different takes on Sherlock and John between the episodes – this is mine (needless to say). -csf_

_Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats._

* * *

**_._**

When I left Baker Street, I've taken with me everything I owned. It fit inside a duffle bag.

I don't own much. I don't need much stuff, certainly I don't need all the amazing clutter (and fire hazard also) that Sherlock keeps at Baker Street.

Mostly clothes, computer, that old RAMC mug; I grabbed them all and stuffed them in a shapeless travelling bag. Actually, I stuffed them in my old army bag, that was at hand on the bottom of the wardrobe closet from the bedroom upstairs.

I realized I needed to get out in a couple of days from what happened at St Bart's. The voices, the glimpses at the corner of the eye, that just weren't there. I know they happened because my mind hadn't quite caught up with the reality, despite the shock, despite the fact that I didn't feel the pulse in the lifeless wrist of my best friend and flatmate. But it was too much. Haunted by him, not really understanding how I had let that happen, in the first place.

So I gathered my worldly possessions, leaving Mrs Hudson alarmed by my sudden exit. I gave her extra months of rent (my part and Sherlock's too), but I knew that wasn't where her troubles in seeing me leave really lay.

All I could not fit in the bag I left behind in the bin.

That's how soldiers think. We need to travel light and fast on enemy ground.

Without Sherlock, London was no more friendly ground.

I took up a small apartment by the clinic, what I could afford at the time. Not much to look at, but it had a roof and a door. Luckily it had some furniture included. That was all I needed.

Soldiers make do with what they have.

It was back in the battle for me, working as many shifts as I could to keep me busy (and sane). I didn't need more. I was doing just fine as I was.

I never really regretted what I left behind, binned. Maybe because I really didn't have the time. Maybe because I didn't give myself permission to think it through. Thinking was far too dangerous and emotional, and exhausting at the time. Instead I focused on work, on saving lives, after I had failed to save one of the most important ones.

Shouldn't say this – all lives are important.

Shouldn't miss Sherlock either, but I did. I just hid the fact from everyone. And even from me.

_**.**_

Mary came into my life. Sherlock re-emerged, quite alive as it turned out.

For a moment in time, it was as if I could have it all. And be happy.

Sure I was still angry at Sherlock for what he had done. Mostly for the time he had kept up his little farce.

But Mary was there, and Sherlock was there, and the gang was coming back together, and the game was back on.

I think I was happy.

That's when the letter arrived in the mail. Multicoloured stamps, enough to tell me it had come from overseas. And I knew what it was, before I even opened it. Another fallen companion.

I had Sherlock back. Somewhere on enemy territory I had lost another of my men.

It never stopped, the Universe. I kept losing people, beyond my grasp.

I have long lost my men, and my post as Captain.

I know they weren't mine to begin with. Not even borrowed.

They were as much mine as I was theirs.

They mourned my loss as well, when I was discharged over the shoulder wound, and its complications.

Now I was left safe in London, receiving news of loss, one by one.

There was nothing I could do. Again.

I didn't tell Mary about these letters. Not for the first time. Didn't want to worry her. With the wedding plans and all.

I think she could tell, anyway. Mary was supportive and sweet. She too knew there was nothing she could do to fix the Universe for me.

I didn't tell Sherlock either. No one was supposed to know.

But now I regretted that upon leaving Baker Street I had found that my uniform didn't fit in my bag.

I knew in the end it didn't matter, lots of us would be going to the funeral in regular civilian clothing.

I regretted even more that I had binned my medals as well.

Always hated those medals. Pressure formed pieces of metal and coloured fabric. I appreciated them proudly before that last one, the one I got for my shoulder troubles, after I was shipped home, worthless and dispensed.

After losing Sherlock I threw them away.

Maybe it was a tantrum.

Maybe I was hurt that I had failed Sherlock, I didn't want to see the medals of the times I had once succeeded.

I remember thinking I wanted a fresh start from it all. Another one. My life is made of fresh starts.

Yet the past always catches up eventually.

_**.**_

'John.'

I turn around abruptly. I've let myself get caught up in my thoughts. Didn't even hear Sherlock climbing up the stairs to 221B, to find me frozen in the middle of the living room. I clear my throat, giving me time to gather my scattered thoughts, before explaining:

'Mrs Hudson told me a letter had come for me, so I dropped by. Hm... I'll tell them the new address, Sherlock.'

He's taking his long coat off in familiar gestures that oppose the sudden nauseated feeling that's overwhelming me. I blink and it goes away. But I'd swear I can still smell the sand on a desert storm.

'John, you need to take a seat.'

Suddenly, he's upon me, piercing me with his light metallic eyes. I cringe at the sudden proximity, I feel trapped as it is, a ball growing in my throat.

'Yeah, I should get going', I mutter, anxious for some fresh air.

He throws me an educational scolding look as he goes crack a window open. The cold outside air grounds me a bit.

I'll never admit I needed it.

'Please take a seat, John.'

'I'm alright now.' Damn it. That's as much of an admission as Sherlock needs.

'Who was he?'

'You saw the letter.' He knows.

'Just the envelope, it was all I needed.' He sounds aloof, but there is no appreciation of his own triumph this time, I realize in the back of my mind.

'A colleague Captain. It doesn't matter.' I try convincing myself, shrugging a little.

He crosses the room to reach the mantle. There's a box just under the skull. He opens it and removes a velvety black bag. The pieces inside jingle in a metallic melody. I recognise it. I stare at him because I cannot believe it, I really can't.

'Mrs Hudson and I kept your medals', he states, in case I haven't caught up yet. But I have. I never thought I'd see them again. 'John...'

I nod. One sharp military nod as it turns out. Maybe because I squared my shoulders and raised my chin.

'John, I can accompany you to the site of the ceremony.'

I shake my head briskly. I can still smell that sand in 221B, there will be no one there as well to maybe watch me crack under pressure, I rather be alone.

'John, you don't have to go alone.'

'I want to. Thanks, though.'

He actually looks impatient now, about to lash out somehow. I stand there, solid, stoic, pushing the smell of sand to the back of my mind again.

'_John, just drop it._'

'Excuse me?'

'Drop the act. You don't have to do this alone.'

A dried up laugh, sterile and empty, comes out of me before I know it. I grab tighter the medal's bag in my hand.

He's still relentlessly staring at me, his eyes on my eyes, searching for signs of weakness. I cannot, I will not, give him any. Overbearingly, he declares: 'I'll pick you up by cab. Mycroft will make sure I'm on the guest list.'

I feel exhausted, and nod at last.

It feels right to give in. To be less alone.

'Sixteen hundred hours, Sherlock.' He nods, ignoring the military jargon. 'Captain Chandler was a good man.' He nods again, restrained.

'I'll make you a tea. No need to leave yet, John.'

I nod, my turn. I know the tea's quality will be unpredictable, but I welcome the chance to sit on my armchair for a couple of minutes.

I hardly notice them go by. Suddenly Sherlock is handing me the tea. Sugared, even though he knows I don't take sugar. I realize he might have smelled the hot sand too. Known it was there. I smile briefly, thanking him without words.

He smiles back, as a friend who's trying to fix the Universe for me, one small thing at a time.


	3. Chapter 3

**_._**

221B Baker Street reeks of sulphur (and the smell is rancid). Can't say it surprises me, as I climb the stairs into the flat to visit Sherlock. It happened before. About two times. I guess three times is the charm, really. I still have no idea what he's up to, in one of his science sulking fits. I'll read it in his blog eventually.

I finally cross the door, disguising a smug smile, and his low voice addresses me immediately:

'Fireworks, John.'

Fireworks. Right. With gunpowder and dangerous chemicals. Just the thing to (not!) do in a kitchen in the heart of London.

'Is it for a case?' I ask.

'Of course. There was an explosion in a warehouse in Chinatown due to badly produced, illegally stored, fireworks. Don't you read the news?'

Yes, I read the news. There was a time I even read them out loud to Sherlock.

'Look Sherlock, are you sure you are being careful?'

'Yes, of course I am. I'm adding sodium for the yellow firework - see?, clearly labelled package - and lithium for red.'

I frown. Not exactly what I meant and he knows it.

'Where will you store those?'

'Nowhere. I'm using them at once.'

'You've got a permit to throw fireworks from Central London on an unordinary date?' I ask.

He shakes his head. 'Mycroft will take care I don't get jailed. He needs me for a case.'

'Sherlock, you'll scare someone half to death!'

He smirks childishly, I sigh as a response. Some things don't really change.

'Look, we can get into a cab, we can try to find a more secluded location.'

He looks triumphant now. What happened? Oh, right. He never meant to use 221's rooftop. He wanted me to go along. Sometimes, the great Sherlock Holmes, the mind of the century, is like a big child with a loud obnoxious foul-smelling toy.

'New Year is over with, Sherlock.'

'Chinese New Year, John.'

I nod, absent-mindedly.

'Are you sure this is for a case?'

'Of course, John!' he answers, like I've just wounded his pride. Immediately I feel bad.

'Fine. What colours do you have?' I lead him on.

'Calcium, lithium, copper, sodium', he tells me as if those were actual colours. I pick up one of the makeshift cardboard tubes, reading again the colour noted on it: copper. _Right_.

As I'm lowering it back down on the table, Sherlock is reaching over for more foul chemicals. His hand collides with my left arm, jerking it briskly. Damned his lack of personal space. My arm is quite sentimentally attached to my bad shoulder that cries out in pain. Before I know it the crafted paper tube has rolled over the open flames of the Bunsen burner.

Sherlock and I share one _very_ scared look.

Immediately I try to shake the fireworks tube to blow it off. Sherlock just grabs me by the other arm, tightly. _'Just drop it, John!'_ He pulls me to the bedroom down the hall just in time.

Turns out "copper" means "blue" in Sherlock's world, and 221B's kitchen hasn't been the same since.

**_._**

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	4. Chapter 4

_**.**_

'What are we doing here, Sherlock?'

'Crime scene, John.'

'You know what I mean. This is not even Lestrade's crime scene. We can't just show up to any Scotland Yard's crime scene and demand the officer in charge to cooperate with us.'

'Lestrade is already convincing the man for me', Sherlock states smugly. 'He'll take over the scene and then we'll be officially invited in. Might as well start looking at the scene already. The longer we wait the more clues left behind by the killer will disappear.'

He lifts the white and blue crime scene tape for him and for me, pressuring me in. Apparently it doesn't take much pressure for I follow him straight away. My senses are engaged, controlling the scene, scanning the perimeter, as my mad friend dives to the floor to smell out the particular brand of car oil that was spilled onto the pavement. All in a day's work, I consider, holding my hands behind my back.

The night is cold and damp. The police car lights shine pulsed explosions of blue against the brick walls of the buildings around us. Greg has just spotted us, still talking to the other Detective Inspector on the scene, the one in charge. I can see by the look on Greg Lestrade's face that Sherlock's presence was less than announced. Time to walk over to them and clear the air.

'What is Sherlock doing here, John?' Greg presses me at once. I'm not Sherlock's keeper, but he already knows that. Instead I answer:

'Sherlock Holmes thinks he can help in this case, DI Lestrade. _If_ the police force is interested in his help.'

'Not my case, John', he warns me. 'Look, this is DI Chandler. Chandler, this is John Watson.'

'Nice to meet you', I state politely, reaching out with a hand. As I take his on mine, I can't help but notice a small tremor, and a sweaty palm. Before I can help myself, I forgot all about advocating for Sherlock and I'm actually leaning forward to check his pupils' dilation in the alley's semi-darkness. 'DI Chandler, I'm a doctor. Do you mind if I take a look at you? Tell me, have you been feeling well?'

The man glances at Greg, then back at me. I have a vague notion that Greg thinks I'm pulling a stunt. I have no time to set him right. That is...

'Greg, get one of the paramedics in here. He's crashing... Now!' I think I yelled at him, I don't think I care.

The man in front of me doesn't realise he's either on some really nasty drugs or he's having a minute seizure, probably the result of a stroke. He's still standing and talking for now; he won't be for long.

Greg opens and closes his mouth silently, then he's on his way.

I make Chandler sit down and kneel by his side, measuring his vitals and reactions by instinct.

'Can you tell me your name?' The usual responsive-alertness assessment questions. He knows his full name, or at least I have no reason to doubt his answer. 'Can you tell me the day of the week?' Apparently not.

I hear rushed steps. The paramedics and Greg, I know it without even turning. I call out his data and my first assessment over the shoulder, then they are working an IV onto him, in case he crashes on the way to the hospital. I suggest a small dosage of blood thinning agents, they agree. The paramedics get him back up, I follow instinctively, but someone holds my arm back, startling me.

It's Greg.

'I'm going with my patient', I snap at him. He shakes his head.

'Let the paramedics take care of it, they know what they are doing. You'd just be on their way in that ambulance, John.'

I feel confused. He's my patient, right? I spotted it first. That makes him my patient, right?

Damn. The paramedics are all of a sudden rushing like mad men in an organised frenzy. I try to run over. Before my body even moves, a strong friendly hand is laid on my shoulder.

'_Just drop it, John_. He's in good hands.'

It's Sherlock. Materializing from thin air.

'Sherlock, he...' I start, but I'm cut off by the sound of the ambulance doors being snapped shut. I just stay there, quiet and empty, watching it leave.

I'm a doctor. I feel helpless.

Greg tries to lighten the mood with a bad taste joke: 'Guess it's my crime scene now and you got your way in the end, Sherlock.'

Strangely, Sherlock Holmes seems more intent on me than on the crime scene now.

And for once he and Greg are on the same page for they are both still holding me back.

'How did you know, John?' Greg asks first. I know he doesn't really care about the answer, he just wants me to recognise it's done, over with. So I abstain from answering, still transfixed on the road the ambulance took to leave.

I need to know he pulled through. I need to know I caught it on time.

Finally I close my eyes, and breathe out.

'You've probably just saved the man's life, John', Greg assures me then.

Probably. Never sure. I should have got used to this. But I'm a doctor. It's my job to save lives. I may have failed this time. I wonder if I should have seen it earlier.

I'm distracted when Greg invites me for a pint later. Before I refuse, Sherlock is inviting himself in and accepting on my behalf. I smile an awkward grim smile. I'm glad they are there. Holding me together.

_**.**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**.**_

'It's for a case, John!'

There was an unrestrained exhilaration in Sherlock's words, one I usually associate with science or murders.

Oh, no. Nothing good ever came out of those words. Ever.

Now I'm curious. Damn.

'Science or murder, Sherlock?'

'Please stop trying to distract me, John. We have little time. We need to disguise ourselves.'

'No', I state slowly, clearly, rounding my vowel. The smug detective pretends he's hard hearing now. All fired up, he's gesticulating all around 221B's living room, going on and on about the three main suspects, and infiltrating their lair.

This is not good. Last time we ended up in a mobsters family's villa in the Mediterranean. At least the sea water was warm, as we swam away for our lives. Mycroft showed up in a bloody yacht, the Holmes brothers enjoy the good life in their emergency rescues.

Still, the water was warm. Better than the cold Thames, when we infiltrated the vampire inspired cult and it turned out they were all artists hired by the real murderer, who then chased us with a gun almost across the bridge, while the artists cheered on, thinking it was a performance. It's very hard to spot Sherlock in the Thames' waters, at night, in dark clothes, with his dark hair wet and plastered all over his eyes and ears. He was about swimming in the wrong direction (he'll never admit his mental map of London is limited to dry land) and I had to get him in the right track.

He's going to get himself killed one of these days.

That's why I need to go with him. So long as there's a chance he might need me.

He has my back too.

'What is it this time, Sherlock?' I give in. He beams a smile at me.

'You play the clarinet, John.'

I gulp dryly. 'Once. In school. I was a mess at it. Never much of a musician. Rather have the physical sports extra school activities.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Predictable', he mumbled under his breath. Then louder, he added: 'Hope you learnt something, John. We are going to infiltrate the Spanish Orchestra.'

'We don't look Spanish.'

'I'll look the part, don't worry. I trained at physical characterization and social interaction of different cultures. You... you were adopted.'

I giggle. Bloody—

'Sherlock!'

He's smiling too. I swear sometimes he's a consulting nine years old detective.

'Sherlock, I don't know how to play a musical instrument, couldn't do it to save my life.'

'Yes you can.'

'Seriously, Sherlock, I can't. We'll get caught.'

He rolled his eyes. '_Just drop it, John_. I know you were on the school band for two years before you joined the rugby team.'

'How—?' Never mind.

No point in denying it to my bloody stalker now.

'I said we would infiltrate the Orchestra, John. There'll be a real clarinettist there. We'll fix your clarinet so it looks like you are playing along while no sound comes out. No need to worry about brushing up your performance. Naturally I can't jam cotton balls into a violin so I'll be playing with them.'

'Couldn't you have mentioned the cotton balls from the beginning?' I complain, I already know it's useless. 'And this is going to help catch a murderer?'

'Of course', he answers as the most natural thing in the world. It's either the bassoonist or the maestro, I'd guess.

'And, John?'

'Hm?'

'You can keep the clarinet. Mrs Hudson would love to hear you play one evening. She enjoys hearing me.'

Yeah. That's _you,_ Sherlock. They may need the cotton balls in their ears to handle my performance.

At least it's warm and dry in the theatre, I consider, with a head shake.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: I actually think John might surprise us and play well enough without muffling the sound of his clarinet with cotton balls. From the show and original stories he shows interest and some knowledge of classical pieces. The clarinet is a throw-away line in S1E2 to Sarah, in case you don't remember. __-csf_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Technically it's a two scenes entry, I just couldn't leave it with only the first.  
I wrote this while on the bus. I expect this means I write heavy sad fests when on the bus. (Take this as an alert.) I'll take the subway more often now. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'I didn't do it, Sherlock, I'd never... I'm a doctor for heaven's sake!' My voice comes out slightly broken, overly emotional.

Why won't he believe me? He has to believe me.

He appeases me immediately:

'I know that, John, and I'll prove it. _Just drop it, John_. Drop the gun. It's okay, you're safe.'

I feel my breath caught up painfully in my throat. 'You think I did it, Sherlock. You think I killed that man.'

'No, I don't, John. Put the gun down, the police is watching us.'

'Didn't do it', I'm stuttering now. Elevated heart rate, irregular breathing pattern. I'm a soldier, for heaven's sake. What's the matter with me? If I had killed that man I wouldn't be this worked up.

Damn. I drop the gun at last because I can't trust myself with it.

I've just triggered my PTSD. _Not again_.

The images of war floating in front of my eyes and blasting in my ears.

Just take me, arrest me, throw me in a dark whole; I don't care.

'Need a medic, Lestrade!' I hear mumbled sounds as if I was underwater, fighting to reach the surface. Inside I'm dying. I don't care. It's pain and misery and I want it to end. 'John's been drugged, hurry!' Sherlock grabs me, physically restraining me. Maybe I was pushing him away. 'John, stop it!' he yells at me like I never heard him before. I struggle to get free. He jams me against his warm wool coat. It's getting damp. I'm sweating like crazy. 'John, concentrate on my voice, you need to keep your hands still. You are hurting yourself already.' What? He's got hold of my arms, I've been clawing invisible shadows off of them. I stop, closing my eyes tight. Sherlock's proximity is grounding me, it's the only thing that is keeping me connected. My mind has wondered off, between the drugs and the PTSD they triggered.

'John, can you talk to me?' I can hear the residue of fear in his voice, even if he tries to hide it. Afraid for me, or of me.

I shake my head in an undisguised whimper. Someone stabs me with a needle. I knew it was coming, but it still sends a shiver down my body. Sherlock holds me tighter. No point. I'm not fighting anymore. I must have done it, I deserve my demons. I accept them. _I'm sorry, Sherlock_.

'John?'

I'm slipping from his grasp. I'm slipping from reality.

'He's crashing! Do something!' Sherlock yells in his thunderous voice. I giggle wildly, it comes out meekly. Oh, I'm in deep trouble, I understand it in an isolated moment of clarity. Then, as fast as it came, it's over and I'm back in the battlefield, powerless and empty.

'John!'

I've given up. I welcome my personal hell. I deserve it and more.

'John, listen to me: you are safe.'

Oh, here's the haze. The good drugs are doing the trick.

'The gun...' I mutter as I regain some control over my voice.

'I'm letting Lestrade keep your gun for now, John.'

'I killed him', I blurt out at last. I think I may be sweating a lot still. Something is rolling down my cheek. I just hide it in the wool fabric of his coat.

'There's no one dead here, John', he promises me. 'It was all in your head because you have been poisoned. Listen to me. You - are - safe. Focus on my voice alone. Do you trust me?' I nod after a second or two. 'Would I lie to you? Wait, I shouldn't have asked you that. John, know that I'm not lying now. There is no body, you shot a wall, there was no one there. You were hallucinating. You were seeing things. Are you still seeing things?' I nod, the good drugs are making me too tired to talk. 'That's okay, it'll wear off soon, I promise. I'm here, keep that in mind.' He's awkward at comforting, but I appreciate his honesty. I wish he's telling the truth, I wish it under my breath, over and over again. I wish him to be real as well. Seems real enough for now.

Suddenly, Lestrade is there too. I recognise his out-of-breath voice saying : 'We caught the bastard as he was escaping through the back. The paramedics suspect they know what he used. They are running tests now. How's –? _Jees–_, Sherlock! What can I do?'

I can feel the brisk movement in his head to shut up Greg, Sherlock knows a part of me is still listening. I try to tell them I'm fine, using my slurred speech. They don't believe me. I wouldn't believe myself either.

Sherlock won't let go of me. He's forming a wall of protection around me. I sink in further on it, as I fall asleep, courtesy of the good drugs. I'll let sleep sort me out.

'That's it, John, I've got you. I'm real and I'm staying here.'

I fall asleep, wondering how he knew about that. Maybe he's inside my head too. After all, he managed to chase the memories away.

_**.**_

'Feeling better?' Sherlock asks me almost at once, as I reach the landing, emerging from my old bedroom after a long dreamless sleep. I woke up sore, exhausted and embarrassed. It doesn't help that last one that I am still a flight of stairs away as he monitors me from the kitchen.

Somehow I took too long to answer; he appeared in the landing to check up on me himself. He stares at me with a warm light in his metallic eyes. Then he nods, approvingly.

'Why did he do it?' I ask as I hold onto the banister to descend the stairs towards Sherlock. I realise I don't remember climbing them before.

'So he could get away and you couldn't stop him.'

'Effective', I mutter.

'Hardly', he depreciates. 'Takes more than that to beat John Watson.'

'You saw me, Sherlock', I comment dryly. 'And why did you agree with me at first? You said you'd help me prove I didn't do it?'

'I didn't know the extent of your state, I was going along with your hallucination.'

I nod, slowly. I have done that with triggered soldiers as well. 'Next time would you start by telling me I haven't just shot someone's head off?'

'As soon as you stop pointing the gun, I will. Up until then, I'll carry on agreeing with all you say.' His response is casual and light, but his point comes across clear as crystal.

'Yeah, about pointing the gun...'

'It's okay, John. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you wouldn't have shot me.'

I hope so too.

A wave of exhaustion is flooring me. He comes forward to help me descend the last steps.

'Tea?' he offers, as if nothing has happened, time is running backwards.

'That would be bloody lovely', I confess, leaning in for that trust again.

_**.**_


End file.
